Clash of the Daredevils: North Vs South!
by Karalora
Summary: The 2012 Summer Olympics are over, but not everyone won as many medals as they'd hoped. At least, not until America gets a great idea! This is going to be the most action-packed sporting event ever! And the whole world is watching!
1. Chapter 1

_London, England: August 12, 2012…_

"FORTY-SIX!"

"_We know!_"

"I should, like, get _another_ gold medal for getting the most gold medals!"

"There's a vicious cycle waiting to happen…" England muttered between sips of his ale. His tone was more amused than annoyed—the power-trip of hosting had buoyed his spirits to begin with, and his own medal count was none too shabby.

It's common knowledge that the Olympic Games are capped off with the closing ceremonies, an emotion-laden event wherein the winners are tearfully honored to the strains of stirring orchestral music and the rest are effectively told "Train harder next time, losers."

Common knowledge doesn't know about the wrap party afterwards, when the gathered countries reward themselves for sitting through the closing ceremonies by boozing it up and bragging to each other about their wins, or conversely spreading malicious gossip about the winners. "Yeah, sure…it's easy to take the gold in Boxing when you've had Anabolic-O's for breakfast," is the sort of bitter, catty, and _probably_ untrue thing you might hear once the alcohol has been flowing for a while.

Those who have less to feel embarrassed about just enjoy their drinks and shake their heads tolerantly at America. Or, more accurately, at whoever claimed the most medals and thus has the fattest head. Frequently America.

Then there's Australia, who generally doesn't worry about his final count as long as he defends his title as the world sailing champion. (On this particular occasion, he felt like he had underperformed, but a) at least he was still in the Top Ten, and b) he had come up with a sneaky plan to inflate his apparent numbers in the news—just list himself and New Zealand as if they were a unit. She'd be annoyed, but she wouldn't be able to say _baa_ about it.) He often plays along with America, just to see how far he can keep his brother going before his sarcasm detectors kick in. Sometimes it never happens.

"Tell us how you did it, O Magnificent One!"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know! Thought you could get me to give up the secret of my success, did you? Nice try, little bro. You'd better stick to your boats, 'cause you'll never have the pure undiluted AWESOME it takes to pull off these kinds of victories! _Forty-six!_ Compared to your what, seven? I got like five times as many gold medals as you."

"That's impressive, all right, mate. Good job there's no Arithmetic event," Australia deadpanned to general laughter.

"Well, duh. It's the _O_lympics, not the Nerdalympics. Nobody wants to watch Japan and whatsisname over there play chess at each other for nine hours."

Australia glanced in the direction America had nodded. The Nordic table was over that way, making Sweden the most likely candidate for "whatsisname." He hadn't noticed the attention. Sweden the Responsible _De Facto_ Leader of Northern Europe had left the building some time ago. This was Sweden the Enjoyer of Beer—slouching just enough to betray a certain degree of motor impairment and staring blankly but fixedly at a point roughly fifty meters outside the walls of the room. If someone had put a chessboard in front of him, he probably could not have identified the colors on it in less than three tries.

The really scary thing was that he was currently the most sober person in that group. Norway had his head down on the table and was twiddling his fingers in a little puddle of spilt beer and chuckling quietly to himself. Denmark had his head down on…Norway's shoulder, where he was sucking sleepily at his sweater like a clumsy vampire who had missed the neck. And the less said about Finland's state of inebriation, the better.

That left Iceland, who was…absent. Suddenly curious, Australia looked around the room until he located the fifth and final member of Team Nordic, sitting all alone at a tiny table in the gloomiest section of the room, under a hand-lettered banner reading "LEWZERVILLE."

With so many nations competing in a limited number of events, it is inevitable that some will fail to win any medals at all. The banner was America's tactful way of telling them where they should sit for the wrap party. Good old America.

Australia felt a surge of pity. He didn't know Iceland that well—no one outside the Nordic regions did, really—but he knew he was one batshit insane mo-fo, and that gave him a sense of fellow-feeling toward the volcanic island. No one who invented a new way of athletically cheating death every other month should have to walk away from the Olympics empty-handed.

"Hold that thought," he said without really paying attention to whatever America was saying at this point. Something narcissistic, no doubt. He strode over to Lewzerville, exchanging high-fives with anyone who offered one as he went, tipped some passed-out Balkan republic off a chair, and pulled it up so he could join the sullen Iceland at his table.

"Go 'way," Iceland muttered, barely intelligible. He was on Drink #5 judging by the empty glasses at his elbow, but he wasn't exactly drinking it. If he nursed it any harder, it was going to develop a phobia of hospitals. His sparkles had definitely seen better days; they hovered around shoulder level and barely twinkled at all.

"You look like you could use a sympathetic ear," said Australia. "Sorry about that stupid banner, mate; you know how my brother is."

"Stupid," Iceland said. "Thinks he's so great, but he's _not_. Anybody can win a whole bunch of-of-of _thingies_ if they spend fifteen days a hour inna gym. _Some_ of us hafta _work_ for a living."

"I hear that," said Australia. "I wouldn't worry about it, though. You're not exactly in your element at the Summer Games, are you, mate?"

"Sh'tup. S'not fair. At least you won at your thing. I didn't even win my own national sport! Y'know who won my national sport?"

Australia blinked. It was news to him that Iceland even had a national sport, let alone one that would be played in warm weather.

"NORWAY!" Iceland bellowed, drawing stares. Over at the Nordic table, Norway suddenly sat bolt upright, pitching Denmark off his shoulder and onto the floor.

"My own brother," Iceland continued miserably, "couldn't even let me have _my own thing_. So now I'm stuck here. In _Lewzerville_. With all the _lewzers_."

"Yeah, mate, brothers suck," said Australia in his continued efforts at international solidarity.

"Sh'tup," Iceland said again. "You don't know me."

"Well," said Australia, adjusting his posture in preparation to stand up, "I came over here to cheer you up, but I can see you don't want…" He trailed off, sensing a change in the atmosphere. It had suddenly acquired a certain doom-laden vibe.

Something heavy landed on his shoulder like the Invisible Hand of the Free Market turned visible. Australia craned his neck to see America looming over him, wearing an expression of mixed amusement and annoyance. "Do my ears deceive me? Or did I just hear my little brother saying that I _suck_?"

Australia reddened, in part because America's grip was messing up the circulation in his upper body. "Might've done…" he mumbled. "But I didn't mean _you_! I just meant, you know, brothers in general…"

"_My_ brother sucks," Iceland opined right before tossing back his drink.

"You have a brother?" America said, puzzled. "Wait, which one are you again? Netherlands, right?"

"Iceland," Australia corrected him absently. His shoulder was going numb.

"Oh, right. The one with the volcanoes and whatsername. Ba-jork. Dude! What are you sitting over here for? You got a medal, didn't you?"

"No. Stupid Norway stupidly took my gold in stupid handball."

No language on Earth contains a word to adequately describe what happened next, so we'll have to make one up. Let's go with…_Nornami_. Yes, that will do—a seismically charged wave of Norway rose up behind the unsuspecting Iceland and engulfed him, drenching him with saltwater while shot glasses cascaded to the floor and shattered.

"_It's true!_" Norway bawled. "_I __**do**__ suck! Leaving my poor little baby little little brother with __**nothing**__!_" He spun Iceland's chair around and collapsed sobbing against his chest, leaving him just bewildered.

"Hey, man," said America. "Don't _cry_. That's not very macho."

Norway came up for air and looked pleadingly up at his (poor little baby little) little brother. "I'll make it up to you. Let me make it up to you. God, I feel so _awful_."

"Cut it out," America frowned. "You're messing up my party."

"It's Dad's party," said Australia.

"Whatever."

"Can I have one of your medals?" said Iceland.

"Uuuhhhhhhhhhh…" said Norway.

America's face suddenly lit up like the Olympic flame. "NO WAIT GUYS I JUST GOT A MUCH BETTER IDEA!" he blurted, flinging his arms ceilingward.

"Augh," Australia muttered, rubbing his shoulder hard as the nerves woke back up in a torrent of pins and needles.

"We'll hold a _special_ event, just to give…uh…"

"Iceland," Australia said again.

"Right. Just to give _Iceland_ a shot at winning a medal! DAD, C'MERE! Because he's really too cool to have to sit over here with all these Third World bozos."

"That's what I thought," said Australia. "Not in those exact words, of course." Some of the so-called bozos were aiming glares in their direction.

England arrived just then, having experienced a thrilling adventure in the form of crossing the increasingly rowdy room. "All right, what is it?" he said. "I don't need to send for more alcohol already, do I?"

"Couldn't hurt," Australia volunteered.

"Okay, Dad, so…this is Iceland," America began.

"Er…yes, I know," said England.

"Notice anything…I dunno…_wrong_ with him?"

"He's still conscious? That's relatively unusual for a Nordic when there's an open tab."

"He's sitting over here in Lewzerville! _He didn't win anything!_" This cued a fresh round of remorseful sobbing from Norway.

"Yes, and? I'm sure he'll mop the stadium floor with the rest of us in two years."

"_Two years?!_ I can't wait that long! We need to help him win something _now_!"

"There's nothing for it, boy! The Games are _over_!"

"I know, Dad! My point is, we should hold a _special_ event, just for Iceland and someone to face off with him! If there's only two countries competing, he's guaranteed at least a silver!"

"That doesn't sound very satisfying…" said England with a skeptical quirk of his eyebrow.

"I'll take it," said Iceland.

"Well, then, perhaps if we rig up something simple. But who would be his opponent?"

America gestured at Norway. "Uh…" he said, snapping his fingers. "…uh, uh, Swe…no, uh, uh, D—Norway! He's your little brother, right? I heard that somewhere. Help us figure this out."

"Wha…?" Norway said slowly, blinking through the fog of beer and emotion.

"Who can we pit against Iceland to give him a good challenge?"

Norway thought about it for several seconds. "Wha…?"

"Why don't we pick this up again tomorrow?" said Australia. "Give everyone's heads a chance to clear."

"Right! Well thought of," said England. "It's nice to know _one_ of my children keeps a good head on his shoulders." America pouted.

"We'll work out something good for ya, Ice-o," said Australia, clapping the other on the back. "For now, why don't you go and get some sleep? You'll feel better in the morning. I'm about head up and catch forty myself."

* * *

"And the LAWD said, LET THERE BE LIGHT!"

The bellow and accompanying explosion of light jolted Australia out of a sound, recuperative sleep. He groaned heavily and dragged the hotel bed's second pillow over his head.

"What the fuck?" he muttered, squinting from the safety of his plush fortress at the bedside clock, which read just past eight. "What the actual fucking bloody fuck? Is this your idea of a joke, America? You can't possibly have thought this is what I had in mind."

"Change o' plans, Oz," said America, whipping open the curtains and making the room even brighter. "Dad and I talked it over a little more after you left and we thought of the _perfect_ country for Iceland to compete with. So we pulled an all-nighter and gussied up the stadium for the event! I can't wait to show it to you!"

"Well, you're gonna bleedin' well have to, Yank. Because I am _not_ getting out of this bed this early in the _bleedin'_ morning."

"Okay, if you insist," said America. He flipped up the covers at the foot of the bed, grabbed Australia's feet, and hauled him off. "_Yank!_"

After the initial shock, Australia lay prone on the floor, wondering if it was possible to legally disown a sibling, and whether said sibling's possession of nuclear weapons factored into the proceedings at all. He eventually clambered to his feet and began to get dressed, deliberately taking as long as he could get away with and muttering all the while.

Perhaps an hour later, they were at the stadium and gazing down upon America and England's handiwork. (Actually, England was still adding the finishing touches.) Australia's jaw dropped.

"_Uluru!_" he exclaimed. "It's like you stuffed the whole bleedin' planet in here! I thought it was going to be simple!"

The playing field had been transformed into a rain forest. And a desert. And a beach. And a volcano. And a glacier. And even a small grassy sport field, in the center of the jumble of terrain features. They were damn convincing, too. A wave machine created surf on the beach. The air shimmered with heat above the pebble-strewn desert and the gently smoking cone of the volcano. The shifting breeze brought a thousand tropical scents to Australia's nose. Familiar scents.

"Are those…_gum trees_?" he said.

"Gum doesn't grow on trees, silly," said America. "They're eucalyptus. Good for a head cold and pretty too!"

"You know, mate, after a point I have to believe you're doing it on purpose. So who's the poor sod who gets to knock heads with Iceland on this death course?"

"Haven't you figured it out? _It's you!_" said America, slapping his brother on the back.

Australia nodded. "Not bad, not bad…you're learning how to tell a decent joke. Seriously, though, who is it?"

America tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

Australia nearly swallowed his own tongue in shock. "You've got to be bleeding kidding me!" he sputtered.

England came dragging himself up to them, a sand rake laid over one shoulder. He was paler than usual and baggy-eyed from sleep deprivation. "Not at all," he said. "We realized that in order to justify re-opening the Games, the event would have to be nothing short of spectacular. Norway suggested we let Iceland showcase some of his more…unique talents. And it became clear that there was only one country who could possibly rival him for…what was it I said, America? It was rather good, as I recall."

"Sheer unadulterated reckless lack of regard for personal safety," America recited.

"So congratulations, Australia…your _immense_ aptitudes in that area are finally being recognized."

"Oh, no…" Australia said, backing away from the two of them. "I see what's going on here. You've decided this is my fault, right? Because I went over to cheer Iceland up last night. So you're dumping it on me."

"That as well," England admitted.

"Come _on_, Oz," America said, singsong. "You're not gonna back out after we went to all this trouble, are you? We made you a beach and everything!"

"Emotional blackmail, that's what this is…" Australia muttered. But it _was_ a very nice miniature artificial beach…and then the rest of it… The adventurous nation started to imagine what it might be like to match wits and muscles with an adversary like the lava-walking, demon-taming Nordic on a playing field that so heavily featured extreme terrain… His fingers twitched.

"All right…" he said carefully, giving his relations a bit of the side-eye. "I'll do it."

"YESSS!" America crowed. "High five, Dad!"

A flicker of movement from across the stadium plucked at Australia's attention. Norway and Iceland were over there, the latter presumably getting the same preview of the battle arena that he himself had just gotten.

"I'll do it…and I'll _win_," he swore. "Ice-o's gonna have to settle for silver. It'll match his hair. How much time do I have to prepare?"

"The competition is scheduled for tomorrow," said England.

"_Tomorrow?_ That's it?"

"After that, people are gonna start to go home," America explained. "We won't be able to sell any tickets."

Australia wanted to toss off a witty retort, but not only couldn't he think of one, he sort of liked the idea of having an audience. And truth be told, he would have done the same thing.

"No worries," he said. "A day is all I'll need." He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the miniature world. "OY, ICELAND! DON'T DISAPPOINT ME TOMORROW, RIGHT?"

"Must you shout?" said England. He thrust a thin stack of paper at Australia.

"What's this?"

"The rules of the competition. Familiarize yourself with them. The refereeing will be _quite_ strict."

"Oh? Who'd you get to be the ref?"

England's eye twitched slightly behind his monocle.

**To Be Continued...**

* * *

_Coming up next: The competition itself!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: And now for Part 2! Enjoy!_

* * *

France, having traded in her Tricolore for black and white stripes for the day, fisted a hand in each of the contestants' shirts and pulled them toward each other, nearly knocking their heads. "Play. _Nice_," she said tersely. She released them, and they staggered back a step or two before regaining their balance.

A referee has to be impartial…but there are many forms of impartiality. A seething disdain for anyone other than the referee herself counts among them.

An announcer, on the other hand, mostly has to be colorful and energetic. An unbiased outlook is nice, but not entirely necessary as long as he doesn't editorialize too much. Divided loyalties are almost as good…

"Nations of the world, welcome once again to London's Olympic Stadium! This is the Kingdom of Denmark coming to you live from the announcer's booth, where I'll be giving you a blow-by-blow account of this, the first annual post-Olympic Special One-on-One Total Crazy Awesome Super Badass Challenge Event! WHOOOOOOOOOO! You would not _believe_ how tipsy I am already!

"Let's meet the contestants, shall we? Just so you know, I've got their families here in the booth with me to keep me honest! Contestant #1 hails from the Frozen North—that's _my_ corner of the globe, so you know he's gangsta supah-fly! Let's give it up for the land of fire and ice…keeper of the portal to Hell…and a close personal friend of mine…Iceland!"

The bleachers erupted in cheers, because that's what you do at a sporting event. Except in the announcer's booth, where Sister Iceland and both Norways cheered sincerely for their brother. Down on the field, he turned about, strutting and posturing, while Australia waited to be announced and France tapped her foot petulantly.

"And now, let's raise the roof for Contestant #2! He's Iceland's polar opposite in more ways than one…the world's largest island _and_ the world's smallest continent in one sexy package…the Land Down Under…Aaaaaauuuuuuustralia!"

Australia's own strut was cut short by his double-take. Sexy _package_? And in combination with the words "largest" and "smallest," no less! Had that been deliberate? He turned toward the announcer's booth and spread his hands in a what-the-hell gesture.

"No doubt about it, ladies and gentlemen, I would _so_ hit that. In fact, I practically _am_ hitting that, because his sister—ow!" There came the sounds of a brief scuffle, and then Sister Australia took the microphone.

"Don't mind him; he's just a great yobbo. AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI OI OI! AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI OI OI! Kick arse, brother!"

The sound of the familiar chant energized Australia, and he launched into a series of poses even more ostentatious than Iceland's. The mic went back to Denmark. "See what I mean, folks? You all _wish_ you had that waiting in your bed on a Friday night! But enough about my enviable sex life. You came here to see some action! Of a non-sexual kind. I think." Paper rustled. "Yeah, non-sexual it is. More's the pity.

"Anyway! The game for today is Capture the Flag! Or rather, flags! Five copies of each contender's flag have been placed somewhere in the playing field, and the first to collect all five of his opponent's flags and present them to the referee will be declared the winner! But just take a look at what they'll have to face in order to find them all—some of the most unforgiving environments this planet has to offer!

"Now, I'm sure you're thinking this will be no big deal for them—after all, they're used to this sort of thing, right? Well, think again, suckers! Iceland and Australia are only used to their _own_ extreme environments, but they'll both have to search through the entire arena to find all the flags! Can Australia withstand the fury of an Arctic glacier? Can Iceland survive the blazing heat of the arid outback? I'm on the edge of my seat in here waiting to find out! But first, our charming referee will go over some ground rules for the benefit of our spectators!"

France turned on the wireless microphone hooked over her ear and addressed the entire stadium. "The basic rules are as follows. One: Each contestant shall touch only his opponent's flags and shall not interfere with his own in any fashion. Two: The flags must be collected in their entirety—the cloth may not be separated from the baton, frame, or other support structure, and if torn accidentally, all pieces must be collected. Three: Hand-to-hand combat is permitted, but the following actions are forbidden and will be considered fouls—use of any weapon _unless_ it was acquired from the arena grounds, hair-pulling, strikes to the groin, and attempted murder by any means. Infractions against the foregoing rules will be _severely_ penalized." She fell silent.

"Wow, folks, she doesn't mince words, does she?" Denmark continued. "I'm glad she's not judging _me_ today! So now that we all know what's expected of these two crazy critters, who wants to get this party started?"

Wild cheering exploded in the bleachers.

"I—can't—_hear_—you!" Denmark goaded.

The cheering doubled in volume.

"That's more like it! Madam Referee, on your signal!"

France stepped between Australia and Iceland, her eyes darting back and forth between them warningly. She withdrew a gossamer-light handkerchief from a pocket and flung it into the air; then, keeping that hand raised while the cloth drifted down like a feather, she used the other to bring her whistle to her mouth.

Sloooooowwwwwwwwwly, the handkerchief descended. The world held its breath. Australia and Iceland eyeballed each other with the best poker faces they could manage, making plans. The handkerchief continued to ease its way to the ground. Sometime before Christmas, it touched the turf.

The whistle sounded.

Australia sprang away like a sprinter—and pain bloomed in his gut, courtesy of Iceland. He had slammed a fist into Australia's solar plexus on the way past him, heading toward the beach portion of the arena. As Australia spun gasping to the ground, the crowd went wild and Denmark began narrating furiously.

"And they're off!—and right off the bat it's a sucker punch from Iceland! Hit 'em fast and hard, that's the Viking way! But all joking aside folks, it was a shrewd move on Iceland's part, ensuring himself a nice little head start in the search. Doesn't look like Australia will be down for long, though; he's already catching his breath. Iceland's at the waterfront. He…he seems to be locked in an internal debate as to whether he should dive in. Well, if he's hoping I'll drop a hint while commentating, he's out of luck—my lips are sealed! Hey! Sweden, don't think I didn't see that over there! I can read you like a book!

"So where was I? Uh…for that matter, where are Iceland and Australia? Dammit, Sweden, you made me lose track of them! Let's go to the hover-cams."

* * *

Australia, still wheezing painfully but determined not to lose any more time, made his way through the rain forest section. The thick foliage filtered the noise of the crowd and Denmark's ceaseless chatter to a pleasantly rhythmic background hum. Australia's eyes were in constant motion, scanning for any sign of a flag. He soon spotted one wedged in the branches of a cheesewood tree and darted toward it, only to realize that it was his own.

"Same colors…" he muttered to himself. It was just as well—he recognized the signs of weakness in the wood. If he climbed out on that branch it would break…which was probably the point of putting the flag there. It really was a survival course.

"Good bloody luck, Ice-o," he remarked as he moved on.

Not long after that, there was a sudden surge of noise from the spectators, and when it died down a moment later, he briefly heard Denmark over the sound system: "One down and four to go for Iceland!" Deciding it was time to step up his game, Australia took the first available opportunity to climb up into the lowest tier of tree branches and continue his search from a higher vantage point. He found himself sharing his new path with frogs and geckos and marveled that America and England had bothered to include such details…not to mention that they had managed it in only a night. He was going to have to confront them later about where, exactly, they had obtained some of these specimens…

And then he saw it, fluttering perhaps a meter off the ground some distance ahead of him. Iceland's flag, a small model suitable for waving by hand. It dangled like a pennant from a horizontal stick, the full design plainly visible.

The stick was horizontal because it was being grasped in the bill of a full-grown cassowary.

Australia's stomach dropped. In his spare time he had boxed kangaroos, wrestled salties, and danced with dingoes. He got spiders _in his house_ that had to tuck in their legs in order to hide under a soup bowl, and they weren't even the ones he had to worry about. He had once worn a live death adder as a cummerbund, because it was that sort of party. But even he had qualms about tangling with a _cassowary_, the creature that proves beyond all doubt that birds are indeed close cousins of velociraptors.

But Iceland had already scored a flag. He needed to catch up.

Australia dropped out of the trees in as light and non-threatening a manner as he could. "Hey, there, you great ugly chook," he said in a soothing tone. "I just need that stick you're carrying…"

The cassowary stood up to its full height—which was slightly greater than Australia's own thanks to its bone crest—and spread its vestigial wings to show off the talon-like quills.

"Easy, mate, easy," Australia continued, beginning a slow approach to the bird. "I only want the flag. You don't need it, right? Just give it here, and no one will have to get their guts ripped out."

The cassowary stood its ground, turning its head to one side in order to eyeball Australia more efficiently.

"I don't have time for this," the nation said, his tone turning sour. "Look, you bleedin' overgrown cockie, this is your native country telling you to hand it over. Or beak it over. Whatever."

The animal appeared to consider things for half a moment. Then it charged, roaring. Of course, in order to roar, it had to open its mouth, and the flag tumbled to the ground. So on the plus side, if Australia managed to survive the attack, he could just go pick it up. The downside, then, was the sheer size of the _if_.

He processed all this in the two seconds or so before the cassowary got close enough to leap, slashing at him with its heavily clawed feet. Then instinct took over. Australia crouched and threw up one arm to catch the bird's leading foot as it passed over him. He performed a passable judo throw, sending it sailing into a tree trunk. It wasn't downed for long, but by the time it got up for a second attempt, he was ready. This time he sidestepped the charge, grabbed the cassowary's shaggy feathers as it sprinted by, and swung himself up onto its back. Then he got it in a headlock.

"Give up yet, mate?" he taunted it while it tried to kick him regardless—or, failing that, buck him off so it could stomp him into oblivion. The crowd noise gradually began to intrude upon the rain forest again.

There was a whirring sound, and a peculiar device flew into view from beyond the nearest trees. It was basically a toy helicopter equipped with a camcorder and a small radio speaker, which crackled. France's voice came through.

"I hope you are not attempting to kill it. It is an endangered species, you know."

"_I_ know that!" Australia grunted. "Anyone bother to tell _it_ attempted murder is against the rules? Call a foul on this fowl already!"

At that point, the cassowary succeeded in throwing him, but he knew how to land safely, and by a stroke of luck he came to a stop right next to the dropped flag. He snatched it, slipped it into his belt, and jumped up into a dead run all in one smooth motion, and was immensely gratified to hear the cheering as the hover-cam broadcast his victory to the spectators.

"We are now _tied_, folks, with one flag on each side!" Denmark crowed. "It could still go either way! What a great show!"

Australia decided to tackle the beach next, since it hadn't taken Iceland long to claim the first flag from there. In fact, he crossed paths with the Nordic right on the edge of the rain forest. In a fit of good sportsmanship, he yelled a warning of "Cassowary!" before dashing past.

"What?" he heard Iceland ask him, but he didn't stop to explain.

His worthy opponent would find out soon enough.

* * *

The beach itself seemed devoid of any flags. Australia was preparing to plunge into the adjacent artificial bay and continue the search underwater when a massive white shark breached the surface, snapping in his direction, clearly agitated and hungry. As it dove again, he noticed what looked like human teeth marks on its tail. That probably explained its bad mood…although he couldn't for the life of him imagine why Iceland thought an appropriate response to a shark attack was to bite back. He resolved to save that area for last and give the fish time to calm down.

"Australia has emerged from the water," Denmark chattered, "but he doesn't appear to be in possession of a second flag! Is he throwing in the towel already? Is Iceland the victor by default?"

"Oh, shut it!" Australia shouted, hoping there was a microphone close enough to pick it up.

"Meanwhile, Iceland has—has he?—Yes! He has secured a flag from the rain forest! He looks a little the worse for wear, but he's definitely got two of them! Now he's scaling the flank of the volcano! And right on cue, here come the cinders and gas vents—but that doesn't bother our boy! He's dodging everything like a ninja! He'll make it to the caldera in no time! Talk about will to win!"

Australia broke into a run.

The outback area was child's play. He made it through the drop-bear gauntlet with nary a bruise and found Iceland's flag under a large rock. Then it was on to the glacier.

The first thing he noticed once he climbed atop the ice sheet was that he couldn't feel his skin. Piling up ice was simple enough, but England and America had apparently found a way to replicate the actual ambient temperature. There was a rather brisk wind too. The second thing he noticed was that there were flags all over the damn place, planted in the ice in clusters. The first one he got a good look at was similar to his own, but the stars were red and five-pointed and there were only four of them. It was New Zealand's. So was the second one he got a good look at. The one after that was almost Iceland's, but the field was a lighter shade of blue and the cross was edged in yellow instead of white.

"Oh, those bleedin' mongrels," he complained, shivering.

"Tell me about it," said Iceland, who promptly became the third thing Australia noticed. He was standing a short distance away, looking around at the fiendish find-a-flag puzzle with an expression of total bewilderment. He was _not_ shivering. Three Australian flags, one of them lightly singed, protruded from his knee-high boots.

"No worries for _you_," said Australia. "This probably feels like summer to you. _I'm_ gonna freeze my nadgers off before I find your flag in this mess."

"Can I put them in my museum?" Iceland said absent-mindedly. "Hey, is that...no, I guess it's one of your states."

Australia made a grunt of disgust and began combing the area, rubbing his arms vigorously and wondering whether the onset of hypothermia would make him hallucinate too badly to keep looking properly. ("Not to worry, folks, we have a trained medic standing by," Denmark announced.)

Australia realized that he was inspecting the same cluster of incorrect flags for the third time. "Ice-o?" he said.

"Mm?" came the distracted reply.

"We're supposed to collect each other's flags and not touch our own, but do you remember if the rules said anything about third-party flags?"

"No, I don't think they were mentioned one way or the other."

"Beaut," said Australia, and he started pulling up all the irrelevant flags and leaving them in a heap.

"Great idea!" said Iceland, following suit.

"What are they doing now?" said Denmark. "Can we get a zoom on this? Aha! They're cooperating to get the decoy flags out of the way! Brilliant solution…as long as they don't slip up and grab the wrong one!"

As he uprooted flags, Australia continually glanced sidelong at Iceland, and assumed that Iceland was doing the same thing to him. Actually, for all he knew, Iceland was developing exactly the same strategies that he was, half of which were direct counters to the other half. The real advantage would go to whichever of them was lucky enough to stumble first across one of the two important flags.

That's the sort of situation that Fate loves to toy with, so perhaps it was inevitable that they each looked up in order to find another cluster of ersatz flags to remove and _simultaneously_ noticed Iceland's ahead of them, perched at the edge of a deep fissure in the ice.

Australia dropped the ones he was carrying and lunged for it. Iceland wasn't allowed to touch it, but he was allowed to grab Australia's legs and halt his forward progress, and he did. Maybe that was for the best, because Australia had almost no traction on the frozen surface and might have gone coasting into the crevasse. As it was, he managed to scrape forward a few more paces.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded as Iceland caught one of his arms and twisted it behind his back. "So what, we'll just be stuck like this until everyone else gets bored and leaves and they call off the game?"

"I'm buying myself some time," Iceland explained with a frankness that Australia found odd. "Got it!" He set one knee against his captive's back and made a rolling motion with his leg that sent Australia sliding away at an angle that could easily dump him into the fissure without bringing him anywhere near the Icelandic flag.

There was the shrill sound of a referee's whistle and one of France's hover-cams moved in close to Iceland's head while Australia scrabbled frantically in an attempt to halt his own motion. "Uh oh!" Denmark narrated. "The referee has called a foul on Iceland for that maneuver! Let's have her reasoning in her own words!"

"It's not wide!" Iceland was complaining. "He wouldn't fall very far before he could brace himself against the sides!"

"_Nonetheless_," France replied via the hover-cam, "it was reckless endangerment of his life and I choose to judge it a breach of the rule." The hover-cam turned and beamed a red laser dot to a spot ten meters away. "Move to the location indicated and stand still with your arms at your sides until I give the signal that the penalty has ended." The whistle sounded again as a grumbling Iceland submitted to the sentence.

Meanwhile, Australia had just managed to cling to the edge of the fissure and prevent a fall, lethal or otherwise. He kicked at the side of the crack, chipping out a toehold, and hauled himself back onto level ice, where he clung, catching his breath, until he felt the bare skin of his arms start to stick. He pried himself loose and stepped carefully over to the flag. Before claiming it, he met Iceland's eyes and slowly, carefully, flipped him off. Then he swept the flag into his belt with the others, tossed off a salute, and went to face the volcano.

A few minutes passed. Iceland tried to scratch his arm, only to be harassed by France and her damn whistle. "Keep your arms still!"

"But I have an itch!"

"In that case, put your hands in your pockets and keep them there."

Iceland sighed, but obeyed. "How long do I have to stand here?"

"Ask again and I'll double it."

* * *

After the frigid misery of the glacier, the ash-tainted oven that was the air surrounding the volcano was almost pleasant. At least Australia was used to severe heat and dryness. The ascent required a demanding combination of raw strength to propel himself upward, stamina to keep at it in the baking temperatures, and hair-trigger reflexes to avoid the unpredictable bursts of eruption. All the while, he was dimly aware of Denmark's rapid-fire coverage of his movements—alternating with similar attention to Iceland, who had moved to the outback soon after being released from his penalty.

The flag turned out to be in the middle of a rope-and-plank bridge stretching across the bubbling caldera. Australia proceeded with the utmost caution. He entertained a brief fantasy that the boiling liquid below was merely heated orange juice spiked with wasabi, but he didn't find it likely enough to take any chances. Maybe the fumes were getting to him. Once the flag was in his possession, he lost no time in making his way back down the hazardous mountain. It was time to have another go at the beach and its razor-mouthed guardian.

As he had predicted, the shark was in a more peaceable mood; it swam lazily around the bay with just the tip of its dorsal fin protruding from the surface. Australia planted the flags he had already claimed in the dry sand and stealthily slipped into the water to begin hunting.

A few minutes later, he re-emerged in a profound state of confusion. Less effort, it seemed, had been put into the underwater environment than the others. The bottom was merely an expanse of clean, level sand with a few rocks and shells here and there, and of course the shark patrolling in its inconsistent fashion. And a few smaller creatures he wasn't about to go near without a pair of pantyhose, a variety of antivenoms, and a heart-lung machine. Among the many, many things missing, however, was…an Icelandic flag.

"It wasn't down there, was it?" said Iceland, unexpectedly popping up for the second time that day. He was sitting on a driftwood log, thumbing through his collection of Australian flags.

"What makes you say that?" Australia said with a glower.

By way of reply, Iceland fanned out his prizes. They numbered four.

"Missed the one in the outback, didja?"

"Actually, no. I found _this_ one inside a hollowed-out tree stump, along with something that stung me. My hand turned purple and swelled up like a balloon until I summoned a demon to suck out the poison. It wasn't pretty. You _live_ with things like that?"

"This from a guy who _just_ admitted to summoning demons," Australia muttered.

Iceland hopped down off the log and returned the flags to his boots. "It was the glacier. I checked every one of those flags twice, and none of them were yours. I was pretty pissed."

"So why are you hanging around here instead of looking for the last one somewhere else?"

"Because I don't think what's going on is as simple as that."

"You think they lied? Put only four of each in here so we'd keep busy looking for the fifth one and drag out the show?"

"Yes and no. I think they only put four of each in here because someone else would bring the fifth."

"What are you…" Australia began, trailing off when he took in the appraising look Iceland was giving him. "No…really? You think we're supposed to try to swipe each other's _shirts_?"

"Absolutely _not_," said Iceland. "You know the rules. 'The cloth may not be separated from the baton, frame, or other support structure.'"

Australia couldn't suppress a smile at the corny imitation of France's voice and accent, but it dropped just as quickly when the implications became clear. "So why are you _telling_ me this?"

"Because I'm a sporting fellow," said Iceland, just before he launched himself at the other nation with a war whoop.

* * *

_A/N: Looks like we're not done just yet! Stay tuned for the thrilling finale!_


	3. Chapter 3

The bleachers were in a state of thrilled uproar as Iceland and Australia tussled across the sand. "Look at 'em go!" Denmark said. "We lost our live audio feed for a minute there, folks, so we can't be _sure_ what they were talking about a moment ago, but under the circumstances I think it's safe to assume they've figured out the _true_ nature of this game!

"In order to provide all of you with the best possible show, the contest officials only put _four_ of each flag in the arena! The competitors themselves provided the fifth! Victory will go to whichever of them manages to capture the other and drag him back to the referee…as long as he doesn't lose any of the smaller flags in the process! It could still go either way, folks!"

The two competitors rolled over and over, the natural slope of the beach taking them toward the water. Neither of them really noticed until the edge of a wave brushed against them, at which point Australia suddenly shouted "Whoa! No-no-no-no-no move away move _away_!" Iceland was startled enough to stop punching, and Australia twisted out of his grasp and scooted up the beach a bit.

"Clever," said Iceland, preparing to pounce again, "but it won't work a second time."

"Truce!" Australia called out. "Just for a minute. It wasn't a trick, Ice-o. We don't want to be thrashing around in the water with ol' Bruce still swimming around out there."

Iceland made a dismissive _pfft_ noise. "I eat sharks for breakfast…_literally_."

"Not that one, mate."

"No kidding. Needs ammonia. How much time left on that truce?"

"Look," said Australia. "I've had a bit of a thought. We can try to cream each other out in the open like this, but I think we're too well matched to get anywhere that way. These nations didn't come here to watch a stalemate."

"A stale what? I mean, what's a stale?"

"No, I said a _stalemate_, mate. Us getting each other in headlocks might be good for a chuckle or two, but sooner or later they're gonna want to see someone _win_. My brother especially."

"Are you offering to forfeit?"

"Don't get your hopes up. I'm saying we should break this off for a few minutes, wander our separate ways, and then try to catch each other up in the more interesting parts of this nuthouse my rellies put together."

Iceland narrowed his eyes. "Now you _are_ trying to trick me."

"You can think what you like, mate," said Australia with a shrug. "But what choice do you have? You'll never beat me in a straight-up wrestling bout. And I'll never beat you that way, so let's not bother with it, right?"

Iceland eyed Australia warily for another moment. Then he exhaled extravagantly. "All right. You're on." He held out his hand to shake.

Australia almost fell for it. He pulled back at the last instant, and Iceland grabbed air. "You're learning," said the Nordic with a wolfish grin.

"You're a bleedin' psycho," Australia retorted. He began to back away. Iceland did the same. They gradually separated, keeping their eyes locked on each other. Only when they were a safe distance apart did they turn their backs on each other and run off to plan for the next phase of the game.

* * *

Australia crouched in his makeshift hideout in the rain forest, taking inventory. He'd made a thorough circuit of his selected environments, collecting weapons—the rules specified that weapons were allowed provided they were found within the arena itself, and, well…France and Iceland would probably both be surprised to see just how far he could stretch the definition. He went down the list of "friends" he had gathered, pointing to each one in turn.

"Redback, funnelweb, blue-ringed octopus, taipan, tiger snake, box jellyfish, stonefish." He wasn't sure what the last one was called—it was some poison thing that lived in a shell and tried to bite him when he picked it up. "All right, you lot," he said. "When you get back to your own habitats, keep an eye out for Iceland—or a tentacle or whatever—and give him a nice scare. Do _not_ bite him for real. Just herd him…like the sparkly white jumbuck he is. Point him this way. I'll take it from there. Dismissed!"

As the creatures variously crawled, slithered, or wobbled back to their starting points, Australia exited the shelter, triple-checked the tension on some nearby vines, and sauntered off into the undergrowth.

Several minutes later, a repetitive smacking sound approached. Iceland crashed through the foliage, thrashing all around himself with a stick he had picked up. Half a dozen close encounters with hyper-venomous animals in the space of a quarter hour will instill that sort of behavior. "I know you're around here somewhere, Australia!" he growled. "Funny, siccing your crazy menagerie on me. But two can play at that g—_WAHHH!_" His rant flipped into a scream as he flipped upside-down, a looped vine tight around his ankle. He suffered an initial moment of confused panic, scrabbling frantically at the vine and whimpering, before realizing what he'd walked into. He folded his arms and let himself bounce upside down until he ran out of momentum.

Australia strolled out of his hiding place. "Looks like endgame, dipstick."

"This isn't seriously the best you can do," said Iceland, turning scarlet as the blood pooled in his head.

"It's good enough to win, and that's good enough for me!"

"Hmm. Or _is_ it?" Iceland blew a two-fingered whistle, something dark flashed by the vine, and it parted. Iceland somersaulted as he fell, landing on his feet. The dark thing—a pointy-eared, barb-tailed little demon, landed beside him, making a sort of purring noise.

"What is this, Pokémon?" said Australia.

"Nah," said Iceland. "Pokémon only fight each other. Get him, Engill!"

Australia stood his ground. The demon was only about the size of a bandicoot and he was pretty sure he could take it. But en route, it…unfolded. Bits of it turned inside out and proved to be much larger on the inside than on the outside, or else made of teeth. Suddenly what was coming at him was not a fun-sized hellspawn, but a non-Euclidean nightmare.

He shrieked. Like a little girl. "_Strewth!_" His feet gouged the forest floor as he wheeled about and fled, with Iceland's dark laughter—and of course the demon—following him through the trees.

He wasn't quite sure when exactly he lost the pursuit, but in retrospect he thought it might have fallen into one of his pit traps. When he was finally certain nothing was after him, he made his way around to the far side of a large tree to take a breather and debate the relative merits of flagging down one of France's hover-cams in order to protest the maneuver. He decided against it—given the way she had cracked down on Iceland on the glacier, if it counted as a foul she would have already called it.

A faint whizzing sound followed by a rapid series of _thunks_ wrenched his attention back to the present. Australia tried to fling himself to cover behind a shrub, but something yanked him back. He discovered a handful of extremely well-polished throwing stars stapling the loose folds of his shirt to the tree trunk. He swiped at them and received a sensation like a mild electric shock delivered via acupuncture needles.

Something rustled off to one side and overhead. Iceland descended from the canopy in a rappelling harness he had jury-rigged out of leaves and vines. There was something odd about him, and it wasn't just that he had upgraded his grin from wolfish to positively shark-like.

It took a second for Australia to figure it out: he wasn't sparkling as intensely as usual. He double-took, looking again at the throwing stars.

"Looks like endgame…_hálfviti_," Iceland said with what may have been unnecessary rancor. "I tried to tell you, two can play at that game."

"Suck my population, Frosty!"

A hover-cam moved into view. "Now, now. There's no call for that sort of language," France's voice crackled. "As for you, Iceland, don't count your chickens just yet. You still have to present him to me in person on the starting green..._with_ the other four flags."

Well, as long as she was listening…

"Hang on!" Australia barked. "Time out!" He stopped straining against the twinkly shuriken. "I think a foul might be called for with regard to that demon!"

"Nonsense," said France. "It didn't actually threaten your life."

"But he called it from outside the arena!"

"I did not! I found her inside the volcano!"

"Just now? You already had a name for it!"

"I like naming things!"

"_Enough!_" France yelled. "No foul will be called. Time out ends in five…four…three…two…one." Her whistle sounded. Australia renewed his struggles. Iceland released his harness and began an agonizingly slow approach, cracking his knuckles individually in sequence.

"I won't make it easy," said Australia.

"I would expect nothing less," said Iceland.

Just then, there came a low rumble from the undergrowth right beside the Nordic's left ear. He stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned his head to find himself looking right into a big brown semi-reptilian eye.

"_Jeez!_" he said, skittering away. The cassowary stepped out of the leaves, honking and flapping its non-wings in a mildly threatening manner. Iceland yelped like a puppy and scrambled off, calling "You're on your own!"

"Oh, _great_," said Australia as the cassowary shook itself with self-satisfaction and let its feathers settle back into place. He tried again to free himself from the sparkles, but he couldn't seem to get a grip on them. It was like grabbing a doorknob in dry weather, but without the doorknob.

The cassowary looked sidelong at him, as it had before. "Er…sorry about our first meeting," said Australia. "Consider it my way of saying how much I respect you as a strong, fierce, _extremely_ deadly animal. And since I am well aware of how dangerous you are, there's absolutely no need for you to demonstrate it."

The bird appeared to ignore him, focusing on the sparkles with typical avian curiosity for anything shiny. Unhurriedly, it paced up to the tree and pecked at one of them until it fell out.

"…" Australia said, blinking in surprise. "Good birdie. Look," he continued as it nibbled at another sparkle, "I know we didn't get off on the best foot, but what say we put our differences aside…and join forces to beat the tar out of Iceland?"

The cassowary gave him an odd look. He wasn't sure it had understood him. He _was_ sure that if it loosened one more of the unorthodox shuriken, he would be able to get free, and then the bird was joining his team whether it wanted to or not. In the meantime, he looked around, scheming. Iceland's improvised harness could easily be repurposed into a _splendid_ lasso…

When the moment came, Australia was more than ready. He pushed off from the tree diagonally, taking himself out of reach of the cassowary's beak and claws just in case it got rowdy. "Thanks, mate," he said. "Brilliantly done. Have you given any thought to my proposal of a temporary alliance?" It wasn't paying attention, instead inspecting the sparkles where they had fallen to the ground. "Come on, don't ignore me, this is important! We've got to bring down that sparkly—" He cut himself off and tried a different angle. "You like those shiny things, right, mate? Well, there's a lot more where they came from. Help me bag Iceland, and you can have your pick of sparkles right off his head. Now how does that sound?"

The cassowary straightened up and looked Australia dead in the eye. It wasn't hostile, but his inner beast-whisperer sensed that it was quite convinced either. He pulled out the last prong of his argument. "Aussie Aussie Aussie?"

The bird blinked. It tilted its head back and honked three times. With a little imagination, the honks sounded like "Oi Oi Oi!"

"Now that's more like it!" Australia said, grabbing the vine harness and hopping aboard. "Follow that pretty-boy!"

Iceland's trail led them to the outback. Visibility was unlimited, but there was no immediate sign of the Nordic. The scrubby ground was covered with too many footprints from their various prior explorations to make it evident where he had gone from there. A blue-tongued skink was sunning itself on a rock, but before Australia could ask it for directions, it caught sight of the cassowary and dove down its burrow.

"Wants to play hide-and-seek, does he?" Australia mused. He didn't get to finish his thought, because the ground began to tremble ever so slightly, accompanied by a deep rumbling that gradually grew in volume. It was coming from…the volcano.

"Oh, bloody hell," said Australia. "He wouldn't…would he?"

He would. And he did. With a gush of ashy smoke and a sound like a continuous thunderclap, the volcano erupted. It was a very _focused_ eruption, an energetic wave of lava that splashed over the rim of the caldera on the side closest to the outback and flowed down that face of the cone. Bounding along with the glowing river, and swarming within the clouds of ash, were dozens and dozens of sooty, red-eyed demons, all horns and fangs and claws and gibbering, reverberating voices.

And _riding_ the lava flow, on a slab of pumice shaped like a snowboard, was Iceland. His sparkles were matched in number and brightness only by the camera flashes from the bleachers. He flashed the crowd a gorgeous smile and indulged in some 'boarding acrobatics, somersaulting and spinning in three dimensions. Denmark's narration was barely discernible over the noise from the volcano, the counterpoint from the spectators, and the sheer rapidity with which he was speaking.

Iceland straightened out and charged straight for Australia with another surge of lava. "Hey, _Oz_!" he called. "How do you like _my_ menagerie?"

"What's he _doing_?" Australia muttered with growing horror. "No! No! You can't bring that stuff through here, you bleedin' _drongo_!" He waved his arms in a forbidding manner, but Iceland's only response was to crouch lower and speed up.

"Better start running, sucker! They're _hungry_!"

"You're barking mad! You're going to get us all killed! Stupid bloody Viking!" Iceland had made it clear that he wasn't listening, however, so there was nothing to do but wheel the cassowary around and get the hell out of the Never-never…and hope the other residents could look after themselves.

Molten lava will be about a thousand degrees Celsius at the bare minimum. For it to flow as freely as it was, allowing Iceland to perform his tricks, it will probably be much, much hotter. At such temperatures, the radiant heat alone will cause low-moisture vegetation to burst into flames from ten meters away. It was exactly what Australia had known would happen, but he couldn't help himself. The sight of the first fires erupting in clumps of acacia shrubs triggered an automatic alarm that went right to his mouth, bypassing his brain entirely.

"_Bushfire! Bushfire!_" he yelled, shifting the cassowary into a higher gear. The cry was echoed over the public-address system as his sister had exactly the same reaction, loud enough for Denmark's mic to pick it up. And for once, Denmark himself was rendered speechless, lost for words in the face of this new development.

Then the eucalypti began exploding as the heat caused their oily sap to expand rapidly within their branches. Suddenly the outback was a minefield, with splinters getting hurled as far as the cheap seats. There began to be screams.

"Give me that microphone, you soused twit!" came England's voice from the announcer's booth (while in the background, Sister Australia continued to shriek "_Bushfire!_"). "Ladies and gentlemen…er…the arena is experiencing some—_yaah_!" He broke off briefly as a demon flew into the booth window, and when he resumed, his voice was cracking with stress. "—some technical difficulties at the moment. There is no cause of alarm, but…kindly make your way to the nearest exit in, yes indeed, in a _very orderly fashion_, and event officials will assist you in leaving the premises." He sighed. "Damn you, America, how did I ever let you talk me into participating in this _farce_? This is an unmitigated disaster and we'll be damn lucky if no one _dies_!"

"Uh, Dad? You're still holding down the Talk button."

Panic ensued in the stands. The audience members stampeded for the exits in a manner that was "orderly" only in the sense that the laws of physics still basically applied. But that was nothing compared to the continuing turmoil in the arena, where the fire was spreading at a vengeful rate even now that Iceland had left off lava-surfing and was trying to run down Australia on foot. What wasn't aflame was soggy, from where the lava had bumped the glacier and turned those parts of it into sudden floods.

Iceland found Australia on the beach, the only piece of terrain left that would neither burn nor melt. Australia didn't notice him arrive; he was too busy trying to wrangle all the wildlife that had also taken refuge at the shore. But sneaking up while he was distracted was out of the question with so many hyper-vigilant animals around. Iceland didn't bother.

"So here we are again," he said. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Australia whirled away from the wombat he was pep-talking, murder in his eyes. "Oh, you are going _down_ for this, Twinkles. The rules didn't say anything about breaking bones. I think I'll start with your fingers. Then maybe I'll ram an echidna right up your clacker, tail-first. It's the least you deserve, you dingo's donger!"

Iceland made a dismissive gesture. "Better check yourself before you wreck yourself, Oz. You don't scare me. Besides, what are you so upset about? This stuff was only here for the contest anyway. It's not like it's a _real_ rain forest…"

"Are we finishing this or not?" Australia growled.

"Bring it, Ex-Con!"

For a second time, the two of them went tumbling over the beach sand, pounding on each other with all the technique and finesse of a pair of middle-school students. Eyes were blackened, lips were busted, names were called. The animal refugees watched the scrap, wondering whether they should throw in on Australia's side or not. Then curious demons began flowing in, drawn by the noise and the delicious pain the two combatants were inflicting on each other. Even the shark hauled itself into the shallows in order to take in the show.

The fight might have gone on indefinitely if not for an errant breeze, blowing a flood of smoke from the ongoing fire over the two countries and sending them both into a coughing fit. They separated while they brought their lungs under control, and spent the next moment or two glaring at each other.

There was the gentle sound of a throat being cleared. "Are you two _quite_ finished?" said France—in person, rather than via hover-cam. She sat on a nearby rock, gently dabbing her eyes with a three-colored lace handkerchief.

"There you are!" said Australia. "Ref, I want this bastard cited for ecological vandalism, cruelty to animals, and mucking about with the Forces of Darkness!"

France brought out a demitasse cup of coffee and sipped it before replying. "None of those things are against the rules." Another sip. "But it is a moot point now. The game has been rendered unwinnable."

"_What?_" Australia and Iceland chorused.

"The stipulation was that victory would be granted to whichever of you presented five of your opponent's flags to me at the central green where you started. However, the central green _no longer exists_. Where it once was, there is now nothing but a layer of fresh volcanic rock. I thought it only proper to inform you two of this fact before calling it a day."

"You mean this was all for _nothing_?" Iceland wailed, clutching his hair in distress.

"Yeah, and it's all _your_ fault," said Australia, hucking a pebble at him. "Bleedin' tosser."

Iceland drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them, and his head on his hands. He looked like he might actually tear up. "I can't believe this. Now I'll _never_ get a medal."

"_C'est la vie_," said France with a typical shrug. She walked off without saying another word.

"Don't you dare start crying," said Australia. "This _is_ your fault, you know. I should pound the snot out of you anyway."

"What do you care?" Iceland said. "You still have your medals from the Games. What do I have? _Nothing_."

"Oh, cheer up. You lasted against me this long. That's something to be proud of."

"What's the point if I don't have anything shiny to prove it?"

"Shit happens, mate. You just gotta accept it and move on. Maybe we can have a rematch sometime. I must say, it was a bonzer thrill going toe-to-toe with you."

"Hmph," said Iceland in a tone that may have indicated partial mollification. He still looked pretty glum, though. Australia was starting to get a terrible sense of _déjà vu_ when the sound of a motor approached.

A golf cart with America at the wheel came cruising over the beach, sending marsupials and demons alike fleeing before it. "That was _epic_, guys!" he said as he pulled up alongside them. "You should see Dad, Oz, he's a complete nervous wreck over the state of this place! Canada and the other Viking guys are making sure he can't get ahold of anything sharp, and then we're all going out to dinner! But first…" He hopped out of the car and held up one hand. The two medals, gold and silver, dangled from it, shining like a second sun and moon. Iceland's eyes locked on them, his pupils dilating like a cat's. "…_who won_?" America continued. "We were so busy with the evacuation that we didn't see, and most of the cameras got fried by the eruption."

"Nobody won," Australia said sourly. "Madame Pompous Douche decided the arena was too messed up for the win condition to be fulfilled."

"Shiny medals…" Iceland murmured.

"She can't do that!" said America. "_Someone_ has to win! I didn't go to the trouble of finding an all-night metal engraving shop in order to _not_ hand these out!"

"You could just give them both to me," Iceland suggested, apparently sincere.

"Heh heh, nice try," said America, making sure to hold the medals up out of the reach of lesser, or at least shorter, nations. "Wait, I know!"

"What?" said Australia.

* * *

America refused to explain until they were all at dinner, which the others supposed was fair enough. During the coffee that came between the main course and dessert, he stood up and tinkled his spoon against his cup in the way that England had repeatedly told him was not actually to be done in polite company.

"Hear ye, hear ye! Since our referee up and bailed on us—I'll have words with her about that later, don't worry—it falls to me, the United States of America, as the most kickass country on the planet, to make a ruling in her absence regarding the outcome of today's awesome competition!"

"Ace!" Australia cheered, clinking his cup in the same way. England shot him a scathing look which completely escaped his notice and so failed to scathe.

"But the hell of it is," America went on, "France was right about one thing: _Neither_ of these guys won! It was easier for them to take down the entire arena than each other! I have to call…a draw! _But_…it is officially—and I want this going in the record books—_the most hardcore draw ever_! And in honor of this unprecedented event, I will be awarding _both_ medals to _both_ participants!"

He paused to give the gathering a cheeky grin. The expectant silence sounded _just_ like the word "How?"

With a flourish of pure showmanship, America gripped the medals in both hands, one on top of the other, and squeezed. His biceps visibly bulged. With a _clang_ heard 'round the restaurant, the discs snapped cleanly in half. Jaws dropped. America did a bit of fiddling, and when he was finished, each lanyard had two half-medals hanging from it. He tossed them to the co-victors, one at a time. Australia caught his almost casually, put it on, and puffed his chest out with self-satisfaction. Iceland, on the other hand…

Iceland physically leaped out of his chair to snatch his lanyard at the height of its arc. Upon contact, he burst into such an array of sparkles that the others had to shield their eyes.

"YES!" he crowed, somersaulting back down into his seat. "YES! IT'S ALL MINE! SUCK IT, AUSTRALIA!"

"What are you on about?" said Australia with a chuckle. "I've got the very same thing."

"Let him have his moment," said Norway.

Dessert arrived shortly afterward—Peach Melba, hot fudge volcano cake, and a bowl of gold foil-wrapped chocolate medallions. (There were forty-six in all. But much to America's disappointment, no one bothered to count them.)

The End

* * *

_A/N: Australia's list of venomous critters is taken from the lyrics to "Come to Australia" by the Scared Weird Little Guys. You can find the full song on YouTube._

_Thanks for reading! Don't forget to tip your waiter...and by that I of course mean REVIEW! To read is human, to comment is divine! Please Do Feed The Ego!_


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